Mis-Fits Anonymous

By E

In an attempt to reenergize his practice, a mild-mannered, blandly ineffectual psychologist organizes an anonymous peer-counseling self-help group that is haphazardly attended by seven divergent strangers—a punk rocker, a teenaged prostitute, a DMV examiner, a food critic, a judge, a priest, and a little old lady.

As the story unfolds in a series of meetings and the motivation of each member to seek group therapy becomes clear, we learn that the punk rocker, a gentle, clumsy dufus, is less than a party animal; that the prostitute, for all of her volatile, angry street smarts, is a virgin; that the driving examiner is on the edge of a job-induced nervous collapse; that the food critic, an amiable four-hundred pounder, cannot criticize anything; that the judge, a meek and mousey public defender until her recent promotion to a judgeship, cannot seem to make her mind up about anything; that the priest, old and acidically embittered, has lost his faith; and that the little old lady is lost in a doddering reverie that shrouds her very being in a fog-like time warp.

As the various conflicts and challenges facing each member gain volition through their group interactions, culminating in a field trip retreat to the countryside, a further twist develops, involving the seemingly inept doctor himself, one that would potentially undermine what little progress the members have made thus far and derail their group altogether.

This story was originally inspired by the comedy of Bob Newhart, in particular, his 1970s television sitcom The Bob Newhart Show, and in many ways is a tribute to this comedian and to this program and, in a larger sense, to the offbeat and abstract profundities of dry humor and the ironies of the human psyche. It is a mostly humorous, poignant story of surviving life, intended to inspire laughter, commiseration, and hope for the underdogs, the has-beens, the losers, and the lost, in a world in which being unbalanced can actually turn out to be the key to staying sane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781640968516

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Mis-Fits Anonymous

Mr. E

Copyright © 2019 Mr. E

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2019

ISBN 978-1-64096-850-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64096-851-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Dedicated to Bob Newhart, whose comedic spirit has been a tremendous inspiration to the creation of this book.

Prologue

Dr. Pendleton stared absently through the plate glass window, observing the late afternoon sun struggle to assert itself against a mass of unthreatening yet abundant clouds. The neutral sky was a deep blue, one of the last true vestiges of summer to be seen as autumn slowly moved in to take its place. It was September.

Below this seasonal battle, the murky outline of the city disrupted the otherwise watercolor-like effect of the sky, its unceasing brown smudge of pollution more like that created by a smearing crayon. The contrast served to convert Dr. Pendleton’s quietude back into a more attentive stance as he realized that he was being addressed by the gentleman across the desk from him.

I…I beg your pardon, he stammered slightly.

Dr. Whittaker also glanced toward the window, looking out at the city’s skyline thoughtfully. Yes, these offices do afford a remarkable view, don’t they? he mused with appreciation, before once more focusing on Dr. Pendleton. I was saying that I was curious as to where you might hold your meeting, he repeated, his bold and yet mellow voice enunciating almost musically.

Blinking, Dr. Pendleton appeared to be considering the question and then nodded suddenly, seeming to remember what they had been discussing.

Oh…Yes, I…I’ve gone ahead and rented a space… It’s, uh…an old union hall. So, of course, it will come with, uh…chairs and such…, he explained haltingly. The owner assured me that it would more than suffice for what I had in mind. In fact, I’ve gone ahead and paid for six weeks in advance, for its use…

He nodded with confidence he did not feel, glancing at Dr. Whittaker as if for confirmation that this was a good idea, having been describing it while directing his gaze anywhere but toward his listener.

Dr. Whittaker merely leaned back, the sumptuous chair in which he sat assimilating so well with his bearing and form that it might well have been custom-made for him. Usually, when they met, they sat in a pair of wing chairs situated to one side of the office. Today, however, Dr. Pendleton preferred having the desk between them, finding that the formality it created gave their meeting a renewed sense of purpose and professionalism, even though the seating arrangement was most likely of little priority to Dr. Whittaker. In fact, it struck Dr. Pendleton that the gentleman opposite him could exact an air of distinction wherever he sat or stood, for that matter. With his graying, precisely trimmed Van Dyke beard and neatly swept-back tufts of nearly white hair, his scholarly eyes peering unwaveringly over the gold-rimmed, half-moon reading glasses perched regally on his narrow Roman nose, Dr. Lionel Whittaker emanated an auspiciously elegant and intellectual persona, one that somehow enabled him to resemble his profession.

Dr. Pendleton, however, over ten years younger but nevertheless solidly in the middle-aged bracket, seemed to be everything that Dr. Whittaker was not. He was short, neither stocky nor slender, merely just…there. He had a round, clean-shaven face; lifelessly receding brown hair; and larger, rather clunky, reading glasses, plastic, which while magnifying script for him simultaneously enlarged the drooping crevices beneath each of his small, blinking eyes. Even their smiles differed—Dr. Whittaker’s was loose and free, quick to spread widely and reveal gleaming white teeth, while Dr. Pendleton’s was fleeting and nervous, a bland expression between a small nose and weak chin. He fought the urge to sigh.

It can certainly be prudent to pay one’s rent in advance, Dr. Whittaker returned at length, withdrawing a beautifully carved pipe from a vest pocket.

Dr. Pendleton stared at the pipe, distracted as he watched the older man begin to fill it with an aromatic tobacco from a small pouch he withdrew from his other vest pocket, his long narrow fingers moving deftly, not spilling so much as a fiber. He lit it, inhaling and leaning even further into the recesses of the chair, blowing the smoke discreetly to one side and offering a profile view of his dignified frame.

As the pervasive yet fragrant pipe smoke filled the office, Dr. Pendleton could only look on in silent contemplation, his eyes drifting to Dr. Whittaker’s attire. He was dressed in a conservative gray suit with a white vest, a burgundy necktie angled neatly from a narrow, stylish collar, its half-Windsor knot held in place by a dapper collar bar. Each article was neatly pressed and free of wrinkles, dust, and lint, not even a stray hair lay upon his sloping shoulders.

The Charles Pendleton look, by contrast, seemed to be brown—a light-brown sports coat and dark brown slacks and a tan dress shirt and rumpled knit tie, also brown, arranged in a hasty four-in-hand knot. (He had never been able to remember how to tie it in any other way.)

On his feet, he wore stodgy brown slip-on penny loafers. He glanced down at them, knowing that, although the monumental desk obstructed his view, somewhere beyond it lurked Dr. Whittaker’s tapered, gleaming cordovan wing tips. His face creased in a meek grimace, a particularly glum expression on his round visage. He blinked once or twice, sensing a bit of depression asserting itself.

Dr. Whittaker had turned his attention back to Dr. Pendleton, clearing his throat swiftly. Have you set up a date and time for your first meeting? he inquired casually, his trim, swirling eyebrows lifting toward the other doctor as he continued to smoke his pipe.

Dr. Pendleton’s grimace vanished as he sat up in his own uncomfortable chair, gesturing loosely with his hands. Oh yes, definitely, he replied, clearing his own throat and managing a smile, feeling a hint of confidence. Uh…It’s going to be about a week and a half from now, uh, Tuesday evening, at around seven o’clock. That way, it will give everyone time to have their dinner and…well, whatever all they might need to take care of beforehand, he added, nodding for emphasis.

His own smile flourishing, Dr. Whittaker nodded back at him, holding the bowl of his pipe poised between thumb and forefinger.

Good foresight, he concurred approvingly.

Beaming slightly, Dr. Pendleton nodded once more, his gaze then falling upon Dr. Whittaker’s long, trimmed, almost aristocratically nubile fingers, and then lowering to his own squat, pudgy, rather commonplace hands. He bunched them together in his lap.

And how are you planning to inform people of the meeting? Dr. Whittaker asked only seconds later, perhaps hoping to avoid another lengthy respite in their conversation.

Looking up from his hands, somewhat startled, Dr. Pendleton blinked rapidly. Oh well, I’ve…I’ve decided to utilize a…direct approach, as it were…, he explained, his voice wavering diffidently. I’m going to make use of…flyers…paper advertisements…pinned up in various prominent locations… He paused, attempting to exact an air of assertion, struggling to sit up in his overwhelming chair and becoming even further engulfed.

Dr. Whittaker nodded once, his eyebrows lifting encouragingly, bidding Dr. Pendleton to continue.

His confidence resurfacing slightly, Dr. Pendleton eagerly grasped the neatly folded document he had set to one side of the desk, quickly unfolding it, speaking all the while. Yes…you see…contrary to the, uh, the attendance of most sessions of this type… I’m not planning on having a lot of people show up. I didn’t put an ad in the paper or organize some kind of radio or TV commercial. Well, I don’t really have the money for either… But you see…I don’t actually want too large a turnout, uh, because I feel it would, uh…compromise the individual attention… He paused, inhaling deeply, having spoken his explanation very briefly, as if it were a timed response. He held up the flyer, which was a slightly off-center photocopy of large, block letters, hand-printed on a sheet of vividly bright green paper.

Dr. Whittaker accepted it, glancing over it briefly and passing it back, withdrawing his pipe from his mouth. That should more than suffice to inform people of your meeting, he stated meaningfully.

Dr. Pendleton’s dry little smile bloomed outrightly at this remark, lasting for several seconds as he hastily continued his description.

I had one hundred of these flyers printed on this color of paper. The girl at the copy store said that a lot of advertisements are made with it…because it sort of…you know, grabs people’s attention. He nodded in vigorous approval of the notion. Yes, it was either, uh…‘neon green’ or ‘violent violet’…which was, uh, more of a…dark purple color…I chose the green because it was brighter, more cheerful. He read over the flyer, appearing genuinely pleased with himself.

Nodding his majestic head slowly, Dr. Whittaker laid his hands upon the arms of his chair. Yes, I agree. It is a very arresting shade of green. I’m certain that it will capture the attention of everyone who sees it, he declared encouragingly, leaning forward slightly in the seat.

This action, subtle that it was, served to unnerve Dr. Pendleton, his smile diminishing pensively. He stole a glance at his wristwatch, abruptly clearing his throat and speaking quickly as he began to refold the bright-green flyer.

Of course—he went on, his tone more subdued—I am hoping for a sizable enough turnout at the same time…I mean I…I certainly hope that at least…a few people will be interested in attending.

He gazed across the desk at Dr. Whittaker, who was staring silently right back at him. I do not doubt that several people will be interested in attending your meeting, he remarked at length, gripping his pipe as if it were a highly delicate item. Even if, perchance, they do not come to the initial session, you will still have five weeks in which to organize another. He inserted the pipe between his slender lips and puffed quietly, exhaling with the ease of a person spending a quiet evening in a conservatory.

Dr. Pendleton attempted another smile, only managing to summon up his grimace. Of course, he nodded as agreeably as he could, not going on to mention that, obviously, the five successive weeks were supposed to be devoted to follow-up meetings, respectively, from the first one so that a semblance of progression could be had. This was only if it all went according to his plans.

He looked at his watch more openly, clearing his throat all over again and grasping the edge of the mammoth desk in a conclusive motion.

Well, I’d probably better call it a day… I have a lot of last-minute preparations to consider, he announced, climbing hesitantly to his feet.

Dr. Whittaker regarded him in momentary surprise, glancing over at the ornate clock on the wall and then nodding, taking the hint and rising slowly from his chair, instantly dwarfing the other doctor.

To be sure, he stated briskly, removing his eyeglasses and placing them in a neatly hinged protective case, Dr. Pendleton taking off his own glasses, slipping them into their nondescript, stubby, leatherette case.

I too should be on my way, Dr. Whittaker concurred easily. Traffic and all.

I’ll walk down with you, Dr. Pendleton proposed, forcing a smile as Dr. Whittaker grasped a thick, seemingly varnished black briefcase, its combination locks and latches gold-plated. He then stooped to retrieve his own paper case, a battered leather attaché case; even its zipper was brown. Let me get the door for you.

The office locked behind them, the two doctors headed down the mostly empty corridor, pausing before the elevator. Dr. Whittaker carried a long, expertly tailored topcoat, a stylishly gray fedora tilted atop his head. Dr. Pendleton had donned a plain tan raincoat, a compact, squat trilby hat pressed squarely on his head.

The elevator was occupied by various others who also had offices in the building, and the two joined in the customary hushed silence that accompanied the closing of the doors. In the spacious lobby, amid the reverberations of footsteps upon slick marble, Dr. Whittaker broke the spell, folding a woolen scarf around his neck and slipping into his top coat, smiling confidently at the smaller man.

Well, I look forward to hearing about the outcome of your meeting, Dr. Pendleton, he declared pleasantly, extending a hand that Dr. Pendleton hastened to shake. I imagine that it will be quite successful.

Thank you, Dr. Whittaker, nodded Dr. Pendleton, looking rather grave, almost ashen. He then forced another smile at a sudden recollection. And, uh, good luck to you too at your seminar, and, uh, lecturing tour next week.

They bade each other farewell, Dr. Pendleton carefully buttoning his coat and then turning up its collar, stepping out into the chilly twilight air. The sun had lost the battle overhead, the gray clouds accumulating in abundance, bringing with them a subtle but increasingly prominent wind.

He moved quickly along the crowded sidewalk, his hand clutching securely at his attaché case, which contained ninety-nine neon-green flyers, identical to the one folded in his jacket pocket.

He caught sight of Dr. Whittaker’s spry form as he slipped regally into the back of a taxi cab and was whisked away, his own steps purposeful and determined as he made his way back to his bus stop.

Chapter 1

Christopher Galveston clomped gloomily along West Darcy Boulevard, his battle-scarred skateboard tucked loosely under one arm, his gaze fixed upon the stained sidewalk. Ordinarily, his lanky frame would be barreling down the streets of the somewhat rundown neighborhood, the spiky plumes of his green Mohawk slicing through the air like a shark’s fin, his slender form steadily balanced atop his deck, his long legs braced, occasionally pumping with as much might as his painfully snug jeans would permit, his raggedy T-shirt and worn military overcoat bedecked with pins, buttons, and patches, flapping wildly with the wind resistance as he coasted along, lost in his thoughts.

Tonight, however, while just as introspective, he did not feel like riding; and his huge, cumbersome combat boots, scuffed beyond polishing, plodded heavily against the cement with each step. Like most kids nearing nineteen, he did not know where he was going, in general; but that night, he definitely knew where he was not going. However, not content with moping around in his room, he had opted to wander the streets for a while.

So far, his decision had only contributed to his depression, and he was gradually beginning to regret going out at all. Yet Saturday night was hardly a time for a punk rocker as fierce as he appeared to be to sit at home and do nothing. It was much better to get out and walk around and do nothing, he reflected darkly. Nothing but feel worse than he did in the first place.

Already, a taxi driver had yelled at him, calling him a dirty punk when he had absently stepped off the curb in front of his cab. The older couple trundling the shopping cart between them had also not helped in elevating his mood, as, when he had paused to let them pass, smiling politely, the dual glare he was served in return had made his Mohawk bristle, his adolescent features crestfallen when they brushed past, their mumbled exchange inaudible, save for, Yes, the filthy hoodlum.

Further dejected, he had pressed onward, unable to comprehend why people were so hateful. Naturally, it occurred to him that punk rockers, on average, not only were not supposed to be bothered by such interaction but also were supposed to invite it. Such was part of the whole concept, wasn’t it?

This reflection only discouraged him all the more so to such a degree that he decided to go home. His bus stop was just ahead, and there was a chance that she had called while he was gone.

That, he knew, was a laugh. It had already been one-full week since they had last spoken.

This line of thinking was sidetracked by the sight of a young girl at the bus stop, casually dressed as if in defiance of the cold, a few text books clutched beneath one arm. The bus, he could see, was just then two blocks away, dispensing passengers in front of a grocery store; and the girl was attempting to balance the books while digging in her purse for bus fare.

As Chris drew nearer, the largest book slid out of her grasp and tumbled to the pavement in a flurry of pages, and he hastened forward to assist her, without really considering the consequences until he was scooping it up to hand to her. Not that there should be any consequences of such an act, beyond simple gratitude, but he had come to know better, appearing as he did. It wasn’t his intention to intimidate the girl; in fact, he doubted if he could. It was an intriguing thought, he considered, until he recalled his last exchange with his girlfriend, realizing that repelling girls was something at which he seemed to excel.

The careening approach of the bus diverted these thoughts, as he quickly stood up and handed the book to the girl. Um, here you go.

The girl glanced up from the book to regard him in surprise and then with a puzzled amusement that was far from intimidated. Uh, thanks, she told him, hesitantly smiling as she looked him up and down.

Blushing deeply, Chris shifted awkwardly, attempting to slide his hands into his jeans pockets in a nonchalant manner and then dropping them loosely to his sides when they would not fit.

Um, no problem, he mumbled, trying to quash the embarrassment that the girl’s bewildered but thankful appraisal incited in him, summoning up a limp smile as he cocked his head meekly to one side.

Hey! a virtual growl assaulted him as a burly policeman came bustling past, enclosed in a thick woolen coat with dual-brass buttons.

You, tweaker, you bothering this girl?

Chris turned to gesture to the girl only to find that she was already boarding the bus, his mouth clamping shut in frustration, falling open again when the policeman actually gave him a poke with his nightstick.

You better be movin’ along, punk. There’s no loitering on my street, he declared in an almost comically officious tone, then prodding at Chris’s skateboard. No skating, either, he added, lumbering importantly away, his jaw outthrust challengingly.

Chris gaped after him, awed at the injustices that were being heaped upon him that day. He felt like chasing after the cop and telling him that he couldn’t move along, because he had also been waiting for the bus—the bus that even now was pulling away from the curb, he noted in muted, hangdog defeat.

He sat down heavily on the bus bench, blinking quietly at a disheveled old man digging in the wire trash receptacle attached to the sign pole of the bus stop and then cringing when the aged vagrant glowered back, his whisker-enshrouded features puckering in disgust as he moved crossly away, the creaking wheels of his shopping cart serenading a rasping diatribe about worthless, rotten, lousy punk kids.

Chris watched him shuffle away, almost feeling the childish urge to cry. He could not believe the day—the week—no, the life, he was having. If God Almighty were to lean down out of the heavens and spit on him right then, he would scarcely be surprised, the notion sparking enough of the latent anger in him to propel him up off the bench, inducing him to turn and kick savagely at the brick wall of the old warehouse behind the bus stop. The motion felt good, and he repeated it, then glancing quickly about to make sure no one had seen him and then sighing self-depreciatively at his own inhibitions.

There was a dust-coated window set in the wall; and in the glow of a streetlight, he saw his reflection, his attention diverted to it as he surveyed himself, all the while wondering again why people were so mean.

As always, he was unable to engage these thoughts without contemplating why he, in turn, was so nice. This constant conundrum made little sense to him, while the image he beheld in the grimy window, ironically, did.

In spite of the pronounced contradiction that he knew he embodied, what he saw in his reflection was incredibly, vividly real to him. His clothing, his hair, his lifestyle—this was not an act, not some exercise in playing dress up. He may have been a late bloomer, but the day that he had cut his hair and dyed it and donned his ragtag clothes, the feeling that he invoked in himself was as free and as natural as being born. He had truly felt as if he had discovered a piece of himself that he had then been able to release with the force of a spirit leaving a body. The hair and the clothing, of course, were only accessories, as were the piercings and tats that would surely come later, once his family was more willing to embrace this phase he was going through.

To him, of course, this was not a phase, something to be outgrown. He was a punk rocker, and while the hair and clothes were mainly superficial, they were important passkeys to the punk rock underworld that this city fostered and that he very much wanted to join.

Attitude, however, was also a tremendous factor in the punk equation, and it was this integral aspect that imbued him with such doubt and misgivings. It was not enough merely to look the part, even if such was sufficient to convince the majority of people he encountered to judge by how he was treated. In fact, the only ones who were not intimidated by his appearance were other punk rockers, though not because they saw him as one of their own, but because they doubted his authenticity, altogether.

Hence, scorned on both sides, he had nowhere to turn, save within himself, wherein he would agonize over and second-guess his choices, his feelings, and, generally, his existence.

He did so now, staring at his reflection, his downtrodden thoughts once more alighting on the place where he was not going that night, conjuring up images of where he had been exactly one week prior—the same place.

He had been so excited when Candy had told him about their—about her—invitation to the party. Since high school, neither of them saw many of their friends; he didn’t, anyway, and they rarely went to parties. An opportunity to meet new people had seemed wonderful, particularly when he had learned it was to be a punk party. When they had arrived at the dinghy, dark apartment to find it filled with punks screaming and inadvertently smashing furniture in the living room, which had become an improvised mosh pit, he had honestly thought that he was in his element. Prior to the party, Chris had felt fairly accomplished in his relatively new ascension to manhood. His original awkwardness with his burgeoning punk identity, while still prominent, had at least been balanced by a sense of maturity, and his once profound lack of experience had been eased by several concerts and even a few raves.

Nevertheless, the truth was that, when compared with most of those older, meaner, wilder punks, he was still a novice; and within seconds, his self-assertiveness had shriveled. Everyone there had been so much more hardcore and genuinely fatalistically punked out than he was that his discomfort became virtual fear, and he felt like an imposter as he stood there gaping.

The smoking, snorting, and drinking of all manner of pleasure-enhancing diversions had been rampant; and many of the punks had been eager to share with them, Chris feeling even more of a hopeless fool each time he politely declined. He was dead certain that he would not be so opposed to experimenting if he did not have a young and cynical cousin who was a paramedic and who, for years, had inundated him with gruesome horror stories, all of which were ascribed to some addictive substance. This indelible impression had left him not merely traumatized but with a veritable mental block, one that he could not seem to dispel.

Candy, on the other hand, did not possess any such inhibitions; in fact, she did not seem to have any reservations of any kind, which was curious, in as much as Candy was not a punk rocker, by any means. While she applied all of the social labels to others, she avoided attaching any to herself, thereby retaining a free range of exploration, in every sense of the notion. In the nearly six months they had been together, she had insisted from the start that they must have an open relationship, one based upon a very liberal understanding; and he, of course, had consented, his feelings for her making him agreeable to anything.

As such, she loved the mayhem into which they had wandered, mingling with muscle-bound headbangers and gutter punks engaged in a game of drunken Twister, with enviable ease, carrying herself as if she had nothing to prove, as if, indeed, far from it, everyone else had something to prove to her. Chris had watched her in awe, fleetingly trying to take pride in the knowledge that she was with him, the attempt clouded by the fact that no one would guess this from the way they were—and were not—interacting.

Naturally, Candy had leapt at the chance to sample anything that was afforded to her, coaxing Chris to join her, scoffing at his abstinence, eventually growing angry, then insulting, and opting to ignore him altogether. It was not the first time that this had happened.

Hurt and feeling even more displaced, he had sought refuge in the only revelry that was not foreign to him, the makeshift dance floor. Plunging into the mosh pit, he had worked out most of his aggressions, losing himself in the frenzied punk free for all; and those frustrations that he did not exorcise on his own were pummeled out of him by the thrashing, amoeba-like throng that engulfed him. The music had been excellent, combining standards with more recent songs, and he had soon found himself daring to believe that he was having fun, that he belonged.

This welcome notion seemed to be on the verge of being consummated, when Candy, much more mellow now, approached him during a slower interlude and began dancing with him, Chris’s heart having leapt at the opportunity, because he loved to dance, all the more so with his girlfriend, taking pleasure in their time together, as it was usually their only mutual ground in social settings.

All had been going well, and the night had seemed salvageable; he had soothed her volatile temper by dancing with her, knowing how thoroughly she loved being the center of attention. He knew that this desire was actually what had drawn her to him in the first place, but he didn’t mind; it seemed to work, and he had rationalized it into seeming like an abstract way in which she approved of his appearance.

As it happened, even in their buzzed delirium, the other punks had paused in their stomping to stare at them as Chris’s moves became more unconventional and complex. Hence, they were also watching when he accidentally trampled on her foot with his wide combat boot.

Enraged, she had launched into a drunken tirade, calling him, in effect, a clumsy, stupid, cowardly, boring fool, though her exact words were much more severe, incorporating terminology that was fatal to the reputation of anyone in the punk rock scene. "Lame-assed, limp-dicked, not even livin’-on-the-edge, Straightedge, shit-for-brains…"

His cheeks burned now at the recollection of his just standing there, gaping at her, cringing in his usual haplessness at the livid gleam in her eyes as she glared at him through the disarrayed strands of her hair, and that had not even been the end of it.

Like it or not, he had been introduced at the party by his punk rock name, a designation that Candy had dreamed up and that he, of course, had automatically accepted. Stud Stomper, while not especially creative, was not totally uncool sounding. It was, in retrospect, much more pleasing to the ear than what he could only guess was to be his new form of address.

In sneering recognition of his cumbersome feet, massive boots, and all-around clumsiness, Candy had dubbed him clodhopper then and there to the uproarious approval of the other punks, who, apparently familiar with this term, began to chant it derisively, Candy instantly ducking this negative attention and joining their ranks, leaving him alone in his ignorance to bear this obviously insulting recitation, the mere sound of the word seeming to embody what he suspected it meant, giving him an unsettling insight into just how appropriate it most likely was. Where Candy had heard such an outdated expression, he could not guess; he had been forced to look it up in a dictionary when he finally got home that night, his speculation confirmed when he read its definition.

Fitting as it may have been, it was not as if he could not dance; far from it, in fact, he could dance very well. Least ways, he thought so. It was simply that it depended upon the situation and the music—the environment. He knew this, intimately well; but, of course, Candy did not. She did not—could not—understand that other part of his personality that he had shared with so few people. He closed his eyes. It did not matter.

He had left the party shortly thereafter, alone; she had refused to go with him and had since returned none of his telephone calls. Knowing full well where she was at that exact moment did not help, for she was where he could not be—at that apartment, at virtually the same party. It was not really even that he wanted to go there, but it was where she was, after all, and it was where all of the punks were, and it was difficult to withstand the idea that he was missing something or even just the childish yet poignantly real sense of being left out, altogether.

Reopening his eyes, he continued to examine his reflection with a veritable self-loathing. That party, that mosh pit, had been the closest he had ever come to feeling like a part of that group and was probably the closest he ever would come, judging by how it had ended for him.

Swallowing self-consciously, he made a fierce scowl, forcing his lower lip outward and then curling it horribly, baring his teeth, intensely studying the image that glowered back, wishing that he could at least appear to possess the confidence and attitude that would fortify such an expression. Tough. Mean. Invincible. Fearless. Why couldn’t he manage such basic traits without making such a fool of himself?

As he watched his visage slowly untwist itself and meld back into his regular, pitiably earnest expression, his doubts soared, always on-hand to supply the usual answer, his ears and cheeks smoldering as his thoughts once again reverberated with the discordant chanting of the drunken punks, calling him what he was, by name. His reflection seemed to corroborate this assessment, the ferocity of his Mohawk and studded apparel deflating, leaving him with the sense that he was staring at little more than a colorfully spiked clown.

He sighed and then slumped in dejected rejection, feeling stupid, confused, and alone, his unhappiness tugging restlessly at his heart.

When at last he looked up again, he was sidetracked from further self-ridicule by the image of someone on the other side of the street, pausing and fussing with something in front of a telephone pole. Blinking, he watched the figure’s reflection for a moment, then turning in time to see him brace something against the pole with one hand and attempt to apply something else to it with the other hand, dropping this second item and stooping to retrieve it, and then standing upright and staring at the first item, which had somehow stayed attached to the pole.

The figure, short and huddled, applied something from the second item anyway, then moving quickly up the street and around the corner. His curiosity aroused in spite of his somber mood, Chris waited until the figure was gone and then crossed the street to investigate.

The item affixed to the pole was, as he had guessed, a flyer, just out of the glow of the nearest streetlight, Chris having to ignite his Zippo lighter to read it; he did not smoke, but carried a Zippo simply because it was a regulation punk accessory. Examining the flyer by its steady flame, he found that it had been pinned up with a few erratically placed thumbtacks, but was more securely fused to the pole by the sticky black tar, which seems to ooze from all telephone poles.

The flyer was nothing more than an advertisement for an anonymous peer-counseling group, for people who might be having trouble adapting to life, in general. Snorting smugly at its homespun, generic wording and uncreative design and then grimacing self-consciously as he realized that it was the same shade of green as his Mohawk, he reflected bitterly that the punk rock thing to do would be to rip the flyer down and toss it into the street, and he was just about to do so when his mind was crossed with an image of the ungainly shadow and his fumbling efforts to post the flyer, a twinge of guilt scorching him.

He then gasped when the flame from his Zippo licked the bottom of the flyer, and he was thus forced to snatch it down, waving it frantically to extinguish it, afraid the tar would catch fire and ignite the entire telephone pole.

This averted, he sheepishly went about reattaching the flyer with the thumbtacks, only to rip it down all over again when he lowered his arm.

Baffled, he realized that his fingers were now coated with the tar, and the flyer was stuck to his hand like bubble gum. Furious with himself, he tried to pull it loose with his free hand and ended up tearing it in half, just as his bus came sailing forth, hurtling toward his stop.

Now clawing at it, he managed to remove it and, unable to bring himself to litter, had stuffed both wadded-up halves into his coat pocket and then raced across the street, cutting directly in front of the bus, the driver lashing into a barrage of verbal abuse as he scooped up his skateboard and tried to extract bus fare from his jeans without getting his hand stuck in his pocket, succeeding, although the fare, itself, stuck to his hand, the driver angrily waving him past, Chris slinking in shame to the back of the bus, headed for the rearmost seats, because that was where tough punks sat on a bus.

*****

Bon appetite, Mr. Mc— Sir, the waiter smiled obsequiously, bowing his head sharply and scooting away, his expression almost maddened.

Mr. McClintock pleasantly returned the smile, nodding courteously and then surveying the extensive serving of food before him—chicken cordon bleu, asparagus tips in Béarnaise sauce, and delicately scalloped potatoes. The small sterling silver bowl of sherbet, which had preceded it, was still untouched, the meal having arrived seemingly only seconds after he had placed the order for it.

The Bistro d’Paris was by far one of the city’s more upscale restaurants, lavishly decorated, with billowing curtains and lacquered partitions creating private dining alcoves for its similarly embellished tables. Its elite staff of waiters were clad in formal wear; the maître d’ wore tails; the busboys were never seen. All of them undoubtedly knew who he was and why he was there; upon his arrival, the master chef was the first to be made aware of his presence.

Having taken a moment to scrutinize the atmosphere with a discreet glance, he had found that he could not look in any single direction without seeing at least a half-dozen fleur-de-lis and was grateful for the diversion that the meal presented to him. As he glanced over it now, inhaling its aroma with great pleasure, he both felt and heard his stomach rumble imploringly; and he self-consciously glanced about, hoping that no one had overheard.

As much as he longed to delve into the main course, he was forced to observe decorum, instead shifting in the rather confining booth and reaching for the sherbet, knocking his dessert spoon to the floor, and hearing it clatter down beneath the table.

Drat! he murmured, knowing he could not possibly hope to retrieve it; the mere act of squeezing in behind his table had left him breathless. His jowls bulged as he tried to peer past his wide, sloping midsection, sighing quietly as his stomach growled more emphatically, inducing him to grab up a salad fork and employ it instead, manipulating the tines so that almost no trace of the sherbet remained in the little bowl when he set it aside.

His palette cleansed for the sake of etiquette, he now clasped his pudgy hands together and focused gladly on the main course for one tantalizing moment before fingering a more substantial fork and an ornate knife, wading into the chicken, his plump nose sniffing gently at the scintillating aroma, his stomach churning sharply at this delay. Grimacing, he quickly tasted a small portion, his features metamorphosing into a look of pure delight, as the pungent flavors mingled within his mouth, seeming to dance upon his tongue.

Ah, he exhaled, enraptured, having to restrain himself from tearing into the entrée and shoveling it into his mouth, staying the urge and taking only a slightly larger bite.

The flaky breading, the spiced smokiness of the ham, the succulence of the chicken, and the sharp bite of the cheese, all swimming in the creamy sauce, were virtually overpowering. He attempted to exact a small, discerning frown, his thick eyebrows set judgmentally, his mind focusing upon the critique and evaluation of this repast; but as he glanced around at the secluded privacy of his alcove, he relinquished his stance and virtually stuffed another helping into his mouth, chewing fervently. Oh my, he breathed euphorically. Oh, that is really very, very good.

His entire course was thusly devoured in short order, the potatoes and asparagus little more than distractions, his table setting devoid of every morsel and droplet when he was abruptly finished.

It seeming to dawn on him that his meal was concluded, he cleared his throat officiously, sipped discreetly from a tall glass of white wine, dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin, and then surveyed his crumb-free surroundings in satisfaction. He then shifted uncomfortably and removed a fountain pen and a little booklet from within the folds of his jacket.

Bistro d’Paris, he murmured, jotting quickly. Exquisite atmosphere, attentive staff, and—he paused, glancing contritely at his empty plate—superlative cuisine.

With some difficulty, he replaced these items to his pocket, musing quietly that, of course, the portions were much too small, when the waiter suddenly rematerialized.

Ah, Mr. Mc— Sir! Ah, have you finished? he inquired, rather needlessly, eyeing the spotless tableware with one pencil-thin eyebrow uplifted, his hands clasped almost ghoulishly before him, his smile even more maniacally unctuous than previously.

Startled, Mr. McClintock smiled floridly, laying his thick hands upon the tabletop and attempting to scoot out from behind the booth with as much dignity as he could muster.

Yes, in fact, I am, he replied, the waiter stepping swiftly aside to give him plenty of room. If I may, I will take my check now, he requested, beaming cordially at the waiter, his massive girth now balanced with his tall frame.

Of course, sir, the waiter complied, extending to him a small leather folder, almost as if in shame. I do hope you enjoyed your meal, sir? he asked, smiling nervously at him, his head tilted at an awkwardly servile angle.

Mr. McClintock’s small, pursed mouth offered a polite smile, the thin, neatly trimmed mustache positioned beneath his rounded nose twitching slightly.

Oh yes, he assured the waiter, adjusting his lapels briskly. I found it to be most satisfactory.

The waiter’s quivering dis-ease dissolved into a visible relief as he bowed stiffly. Ah, thank you, sir.

Nodding cordially, he strolled to the front of the bistro, eventually finding his way through the labyrinth of dining sections, locating the maître d’ standing, sentry-like, behind his podium.

I trust you found our cuisine…sufficient? he surmised, loftily peering at Mr. McClintock as he processed the credit card for his expense account.

Mr. McClintock nodded deeply, his small reserved smile still in place. Oh yes, indeed, I did.

The maître d’ considered this and, apparently finding his response to be sufficient as well, returned the credit card with an aloof smile of his own.

I am pleased to hear that, sir.

Nodding again, Mr. McClintock stepped out of the cool foyer of the restaurant, instantly finding himself in the explosively sunny afternoon of the city, his small, sensitive eyes blinking rapidly as he headed up the street, still smiling pleasantly at the thought of his lunch.

Exhaling contentedly, he proceeded at a leisurely pace, his posture and gait unusual for so large a man; he walked perfectly upright, the full bulk of his person thrust forward, his ambling steps neither sauntering nor shuffling as they bore his immense proportions, instead swift and almost nimble, deliberate, but light. His clothing, conservative and neat, fit him with perfect abundance, his flowing jacket enfolding his top half, and his wide trousers engulfing his lower, his lapels centrally buttoned over his thick necktie.

He was meticulous about his attire, fastidiously maintaining a presentability that stereotypes insisted was unfeasible for overweight people; he was determined that his build must never seem untidy or constrictive, not out of vanity, but from an ardent desire to meet the degree of refined formality that his occupation required.

Pausing at an intersection, he glanced carefully in all directions before easing himself off the curb and bobbing quickly across the street, his tremendous frame bouncing cumbersomely with the increased velocity.

Reaching the other side, he breathed deeply, dabbing at his forehead and thinning hairline with a handkerchief, an almost dainty, if needless, action for, in defiance of another stereotype, he did not seem to perspire very much, although he still went through all the motions of looking as fresh and clean as he could, again, due to his trepidation at being regarded as slovenly or unkempt.

His focus was diverted from his course by a full-scale reflection of himself in a storefront window; and he hesitated, regarding his image pensively, for, in spite of all of his efforts, his principle area of concern seemed even more copious; and he flushed slightly at the usual angst that accompanied such scrutiny.

As the years had gone by and his weight had increased, he had gradually begun to consider the unsettling idea that should he ever become too noticeably heavy, he might lose a great deal of prestige, if not his occupation altogether. It was for this reason that he had commenced taking such a painstaking interest in his overall appearance.

Swallowing dryly, he unbuttoned his jacket and gave his trousers an unnecessary hoist, for they abundantly encompassed his lower belly, dividing his girth neatly in half. He only wore suspenders, a salesclerk at the Big and Tall store having instilled in him a fear of belts, warning him that belts had a way of slipping beneath the bulk and hugging the hips, forcing the stomach to overflow in bouncing prominence. Better, he had been advised that he wear his pants high and wide and look like Humpty Dumpty than permit them to ride low so that he resembled an ostrich wearing an embroidery hoop around his waist. Slightly offended by the clerk’s candor, he had been even more alarmed by it, especially when he had next worked up the nerve to inquire about a man’s corset and had been informed that they did not come in his size.

Grimacing at the recollection, he noted that his pants were neatly in place, his shirt properly tucked in, and his jacket unwrinkled and spotless. All was as it should be, and the real cause of his uncertainty once again presented itself, beyond any hope of argument.

Of course, he reflected, rebuttoning his jacket and moving briskly away; he had only just eaten lunch. This rather flimsy logic did little to cheer him, particularly in lieu of the fact that he was still hungry.

His spirited pace slowed a bit, but he forced himself to focus upon the task at hand, enjoying a trace of enthusiasm as he drew near the elaborate facade of another establishment, comparing its discreet golden placard with a notation in his booklet.

Felini’s Fine Italian Dining. Such would be tomorrow’s subject of review, he noted with growing anticipation. Mr. McClintock often liked to locate the prospective restaurants ahead of time, instead of relying on street maps or last-minute directions from cabbies, since punctuality was essential in matters of fine dining.

His eagerness was dampened again when he once more saw his reflection, this time depicted in the tinted window of the restaurant’s wide door, and he quickly turned away as if fleeing a phantom, his mind nonetheless embracing the usual worries as he headed up the street. He knew, very well, that his being so very much overweight was not actually the problem, not really; yet when he even briefly considered the true source of his trouble, he just as quickly dismissed it, for to acknowledge the idea would contradict almost everything in which he believed and held dear. It was an exasperating situation, one which he customarily dealt with by putting out of his mind altogether.

It was an easy-enough feat to accomplish, for, as he paused to wait for a traffic light to change, his delicate nostrils balking slightly at the odors drifting from a nearby trash receptacle, his averted gaze took in the place of business arranged on that corner, a small, cramped diner entitled simply Lou’s Café.

Mr. McClintock paused, staring past his reflection in the café’s hazy window, oblivious of the rather seedy clientele slumped before the counter, focusing instead upon what they were eating. Hamburgers appeared to be Lou’s specialty. His stomach rumbled sleepily within him.

Swallowing, he glanced at the traffic light, considering that he really ought to be getting back to the newspaper building. A quick look at his watch informed him that he still had plenty of time. His stomach rumbled again, wide awake now.

Of course, Lou’s Café was not on his list of restaurants to review. Then again, neither were any of the other restaurants in which he had spontaneously dined at moments like this one.

Naturally, Lou’s Café did not appear in the slightest to be an exercise in fine dining. Yet, again, neither had any of the other improvised stopovers; many of them had been even less promising in terms of looks; and as a fair and impartial food reviewer, he knew not to discriminate against any place because of its outer appearance or location; and, besides, he had always eaten at these spur-of-the-moment intervals in an unofficial capacity, anyway, in between visits to actual, legitimate prospects.

That, however, was all the more reason to keep on walking, his consistent internal struggle argued; he should realistically only eat in the restaurants that he was reviewing.

Blinking suddenly, he was struck with an idea that, incredibly, in all of these years of identical crossroads of conscience, had somehow never before occurred to him. It was so simplistically obvious that he would have chastised himself for his long-over-due perception were it not for the fact that he was too impressed with its staggering potential.

His mind thus clearly made up, he dismissed the surge of outrage arising from his suppressed counter thoughts and strode boldly toward the café, his eyebrows uplifted righteously.

Greeted by the buzz of an electric fan and a few houseflies, his entry was met with blank appraisal by the few grizzled customers, a middle-aged man clad in a grease-smeared apron, T-shirt, and trousers, his paper hat and hair likewise saturated, peering at him from over the newspaper he had been reading alongside the blackened grill.

What’ll it be, Mac? he asked, his tone the measure of apathy that could only belong to Lou, himself.

Surveying a row of narrow booths, Mr. McClintock opted for one of the counter stools, precariously balancing his immense proportions on it by laying his wide hands upon the streaked Formica before him.

Well, he replied congenially, looking with unbiased anticipation at the cluttered cooking area in which Lou stood. I don’t know. In fact…what might you recommend?

Lou regarded him with a deadpan lack of enthusiasm. Well, I might recommend a hamburger.

Mr. McClintock’s indefatigable smile only grew larger. Ah! A hamburger, yes. Then, that is what I shall have, he declared heartily, his stomach heralding its approval, causing him to blush in mild embarrassment.

Staring at him momentarily, Lou then put aside the newspaper and took up a gristle-encrusted spatula. Mr. McClintock watched him set to work, clearing his throat and speaking conversationally.

How long have you been the proprietor of this diner, may I ask? he inquired politely.

Lou’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. You from the Health Department? he demanded.

Oh no, Mr. McClintock assured him apologetically. No, I was merely curious, having never dined here before, he explained earnestly.

You don’t say? Lou remarked at length, his indifference partially restored as he focused on his cooking. I been here seventeen years.

Ah, nodded Mr. McClintock, deciding to refrain from further conversation, the ensuing silence punctuated by his growling stomach to such a degree that he was both eager and relieved when a plate was rather unceremoniously placed before him.

Your hamburger, Lou announced, then managing a leering smile. Sir.

Rubbing his hands together with the same zeal he had experienced only a short while ago at the Bistro d’Paris, he quickly removed a napkin from a thumb-printed dispenser, placing it on his expansive lap and then leaning forward and savoring the aroma of the undercooked, hastily compiled meal—a greasy hamburger with limp lettuce and tomato, coupled with a handful of French fries. Lou had returned to his paper but was clearly watching his newest patron, as were most of the other diners. Quite aware of this, Mr. McClintock inhaled and then commenced his review.

Well, in appearance and aroma, alone, this entrée is particularly appealing, he stated boldly.

Lou’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. That a fact? he asked, looking inscrutably at the portly gourmand.

Oh, most definitely, Mr. McClintock confirmed, nodding energetically. One has only to examine the basic components. We have the hamburger, carefully balanced with the French fries, leaving no unsightly gaps on the actual plate. Nutritionally, of course, the basic food groups are represented. And, moreover, the piquant of the condiment will no doubt be subtly enhanced by the sesame seeds on the bun.

He smiled enthusiastically at Lou, who conjured up a sour smile in return.

Yeah, well, the sesame seeds was my idea, he informed him in stilted politeness. Seems we’re all out of parsley, so I thought we better spruce up the buns, ya know.

An excellent substitution, Mr. McClintock proclaimed almost solemnly. In fact, I might tell you that, statistically, in so far as garnishes go, people are more inclined to eat the sesame seeds and leave the parsley untouched.

Lou stared at him. You’re puttin’ me on, he said at last.

Of course, in addition to appearance and presentation, which, I might add, was rendered with great expedition and a hospitable smile, one must always reserve judgment for the quintessential test of the entrée—its flavor, Mr. McClintock went on with great finality.

Nodding slowly, Lou apparently concurred. Oh yeah, by all means, please do.

With pronounced expectation, Mr. McClintock gently fingered the hamburger, taking a very small bite. The burger was underdone, its juices had saturated the bun and diluted the catsup; these factors all converged to define Mr. McClintock’s inescapable assessment.

Delicious! he proclaimed, taking a substantially larger bite. Quite delicious.

As Lou and the other diners looked on, Mr. McClintock ingested the burger and fries with amazing velocity, seemingly dabbing at his mouth with his napkin only seconds later, withdrawing his booklet and pen, and beaming over at Lou with immense satisfaction.

Well, permit me to thank you for a delightful repast, he stated cheerfully, then beginning to jot in the booklet with swift flourishes of the pen. Lou’s Café, excellent cuisine, hospitably staffed, a reputable clientele, and a charming atmosphere, resplendent with an…urban ambiance!

He replaced the booklet and pen, carefully lowering himself off the stool, all eyes on him in blank disbelief as he nodded once more to Lou. You shall receive an excellent review, sir.

Blinking, Lou wordlessly rang up the bill, continuing to gape at him.

Ah, and quite affordable, as well, Mr. McClintock noted, removing his wallet and paying for his second lunch and then glancing at his watch. Now, he really should be getting back.

Leaving Lou and his speechless diners with an amiable farewell, he loped up the street, sighting a telephone booth and hastening toward it, reflecting that now he at least felt reasonably full. His mind began to cloud with misgivings over the spontaneous rationale of his actions; and he sought to justify them with the idea that he was, in a way, obliged to review as many restaurants as possible. Surely, productivity and efficiency were qualities well-worth pursuing.

Nevertheless, his handkerchief was out and wiping subconsciously at his brow as he approached the telephone booth, finding to his dismay that he could not quite fit inside of it, forced instead to lean into it and grasp the receiver, punching in the digits with his fountain pen.

As he waited for the taxi dispatcher to answer, his eyes fell upon the flyer scotch-taped to the glass panel of the booth, its unappetizing shade of green catching his attention. A peer-counseling group, promising, among other focal points, to address matters of will power and the like? Hardly anything new. He had even considered such channels before, either to lose weight or to concentrate on his more trying weakness, but had never actively looked into such a process. He simply could not imagine discussing such personal issues with other people.

He placed an order for a taxi cab and then turned to glance about for a shady spot in which to wait, his gaze instead alighting upon something else entirely. His nostrils flicked and his mustache twitched. His stomach rumbled faintly.

He blinked in disbelief. His stomach rumbled more adamantly.

Gulping, he dabbed at his dry forehead and then sighed in defeat. Moving away from the telephone booth, he then surrendered to the opposite end of his internal battle as well, pausing to retrieve the flyer from the booth and rereading it and then carefully folding it within his jacket.

This action, noncommittal as it was, made him feel slightly better; and his head uplifted and his mood upbeat, he strolled lightly forward, nodding affably as he began to speak.

Good afternoon, sir! I could not help but notice the buffet-like style in which you have arranged your condiments, a virtual invitation to the creativity of your patrons that, when coupled with the bold colors of your umbrella and general, al fresco ensemble, convey a very definite stimulant to the average appetite.

The hotdog vendor stared at him, inducing him to flush slightly.

In short…one foot long, please, he requested briskly, his diminished smile becoming radiant as he savored the anticipation.

*****

Vivean Talbott stood before the vending machine, poised with her purse, staring hesitantly from the bright blue package of Sudsies and the flaming red box of Soapy-Os, uncertain as to which laundry detergent might yield the best results. She continued to deliberate, for the considerable mess that had incapacitated her own washing machine—as